Mugarding Wizuggle Practices
by HMRoberts
Summary: It's ten years after the Great Battle and life has gone on. But when life circumstances bring together the unlikeliest of people - who knows what will happen? (Widow!Hermione and Romantic!Hagrid, NOT crackfic! Okay, maybe a little bit squicky!) Plot bunnies can lead to insomnia [nods lots!] There is only one cure - WRITE! Please review!
1. Prologue - How did we get HERE?

"Well, tha's as may be, but ne'er thought on it m'self, mind." Hagrid scratched his chin beneath his bush of whiskers, then his deep-brown eyes twinkled along with the wrinkling of the smile on his face before he leaned forward, his arms loosely braced on the knees of his dragon-hide breeches, and conspiratorily said to the young witch seated around the corner of the table from him, "Bet y' wish ye'd stayed in m'classes, now, eh?"

Hermione Granger-Whist simply "humphed!" and took a tiny sip of the tannic-laden, tepid liquid the half-giant called "tea", doing her best to keep a neutral face rather than grimacing. Putting the soup-mug sized teacup down, she smiled and nodded sheepishly at her former Care of Magical Creatures professor and dear friend. "Yes, I imagine it would have been helpful, under these circumstances. But why are there no veternar..., err, Animal Healers? I would think such a profession would be quite in demand in the Wizarding world; with all the familiars and everything it would seem logical!" The cinnamon-hued eyes of the earnest young woman glittered as she expounded.

She had good reason for her exasperated disbelief.

Hagrid had received a frantic Floo-call from Hermione earlier that afternoon when her elderly, half-Kneazle familiar, Crookshanks, had suddenly begun vomiting blood and caterwauling in obvious pain. Her diagnostic spells revealed little, as they were developed for use on humans, not animal familiars. In a panic, the only person Hermione could think of was Rubeus Hagrid at Hogwarts.

After Engorgio-ing her fireplace, Hagrid had come through, taken one look at the suffering feline and with a brisk, "Foller me, then.", had picked up Crookshanks, tenderly cradling him in the crook of one massive arm like a tiny kitten and Floo'ed back to the Gamekeeper's cabin at Hogwarts.

Ingestion of some steel wool (like part of a scouring pad) that had seemingly been used as the stuffing in one of the toy stuffed mice scattered about Hermione's cottage, had been to blame. A quick set of spells and charms soon removed the offending mass and Healed the injured tissue in a thrice. A modified Blood Replenisher and equally modified Calming Draught soon had the worn-out old cat snoring in a former sewing basket - hastily made over into an improvised cat-bed, with a bit of one of Hagrid's bedsheet-sized old towels for a mattress.

Hermione had been astonished at this demonstration of Hagrid's specialized (and extensive!) expertise. There was certainly a decidedly well-educated expert on both magical and non-magical creatures hiding behind the "mask" of oafishness he showed to the world, generally. It was rather jarring to have to reconsider her previous perceptions of her long-time former professor and friend!

Sitting with Hagrid at his table, Hermione felt transported back in time to her eleven-year old self. Her then-already insatiable curiosity, now more than ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, was as sharp as ever; now tempered with hard-won experience and a layer of wise discernment. She no longer felt like the Don Quixote of the Wizarding world, forever tilting at causes none but she seemed to feel passionate for.

S.P.E.W. had morphed into causes involving everything from the acceptance and welfare of werewolves to making the hunting of Graphorns illegal and everything in-between. Seven years of her post-Hogwarts life had been devoted to a constant barrage of writing op-ed articles that appeared exclusively in The Quibbler; now run by a less-ethereal Luna (nee Lovegood) Malfoy; which articles had been published without comment by Hermione's still-eccentric friend - a fact for which she was deeply grateful, though the resultant reaction from the readership was generally one of flatly ignoring what were thought by many to be taken as humor pieces rather than the serious mien intended.

All that changed, however, when Hermione's beloved husband, Terrence Whist, had been killed by a stray hex as he was walking out of Flourish and Blott's in Diagon Alley, three years ago.

Aurors had cornered the surprisingly elusive Horace Slughorn, who had taken to the selling potions of dubious provenance following his dismissal from Hogwarts following the Battle. The Headmistress; having been called to give a minute accounting of all Hogwarts affairs by the Board of Governors in the post-war reconstruction; had, while doing so, noted certain discrepencies in the Potions budget, and thus had discovered the larceny/embezzlement being perpetrated by the Hogwarts Potions professor.

After it was discovered Slughorn had used a considerable amount of his Potions Department funds for purely personal items; most of which were quite out of reach on a semi-retired Potions professor's salary with little other means of income; the Board of Governors, chary of being accused of hiding yet another one of Slytherin House's "bad acts", had had the notice of dismissal (with prejudice) published in both the Prophet and Quibbler. The consequent striking of Slughorn's Mastery credentials by the Most Potente Society of Potioneers had hit the old social-climber and name-dropper very hard. Had he not already been granted an Order of Merlin, Third Class; thankfully carrying a small annual stipend that could at least keep one in a whole suit of clothes, under a roof and supplied with food of the more common sort; Horace would have been reduced to pennury. He'd never been able to save a shilling in all of his adult life; often depending on his carefully cultivated ties with former students to cage a few pounds now and again, "...as I find myself a bit short this month, you see. You wouldn't mind sparing a few pounds, would you, for old time's sake?".

But, in any and all times, there are those who - for the right price - will provide the shadier elements of a society with those items and substances not procurable by normal (legal) means. Thus was found Slughorn; having been persuaded to produce various elixirs, powders and potions for several "clients" in Knockturn Alley; running afoul of a "sting" operation instigated by the Auror's Head, Harry Potter, and the MLE after more than a dozen cases of mild to severe cases of poisoning amongst those who'd imbibed in Horace's adulterated products. ("Ingredients are quite expensive and using a little less or a lower quality won't hurt anyone, will it?" he'd reasoned his corner-cutting) Wily old Slughorn had handily eluded arrest multiple times; but had now been cornered between Madame Malkin's and the new apothecary, Snape's Sundries.

Harry had assured Hermione, when he'd taken on the sad duty of informing his best friend of her husband's unfortunate death, that her beloved husband hadn't even seen the hex coming; he'd only just turned to pull the bookstore door closed behind him when, stepping backwards, he'd intercepted an Avada intended for Auror Draco Malfoy, Harry's partner. Seeing this, Horace had simply thrown down his wand and collapsed into a foetal position, sobbing.

Terrence Whist had been one of Slughorn's many godsons. Realizing what he had done broke the old potioneer irretrievably.

Horace died less than three months later, a catatonic resident of the Janice ThickeyWard at St. Mungo's.

The damage was done, nonetheless. Hermione's cherished husband was gone.

She had met Terrence "Terry" Whist, five years older than she, at one of the innumerable "Victory" parties that everyone seemed to feel obligated to throw again and again in the months following the Battle. He was from the States; his father being an attaché at the American Wizarding Embassy in London; and Terry had only just returned to England following an apprenticeship in Transfiguration at the Salem Institute.

He and Hermione were an item before the grand march was played.

Married in a quiet Wizarding/Muggle amalgamation wedding, the couple settled into a quiet, studious life together quite readily. Terrence garnered the Assistant Transfiguration position (and quickly became full Professor) at Hogwarts, with the young couple then purchasing a small, two-bedroom cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, with a magnificent kitchen-and-potions garden (this being a joint wedding gift from Severus Snape and Hogwarts' newest - and youngest! - Herbology Professor, Neville Longbottom - the two men being the oddest "odd couple" one could ever imagine!).

Aside from the sorrow of Hermione being barren, thanks to damage from Bellatrix LeStrange's sadistic variation of the Unforgivable Cruciatus Curse, the pair lived in a state of contentment for the most part, as both were avidly studious and passionate in their life pursuits as well as with one another.

The post-war years were full ones, but cut so cruelly short for the young husband of Wizarding Britain's beloved war heroine. Despite Hermione's and the Whist family's desires, the public outpouring of sympathy and grief were so great, they had been prevailed upon to hold a more public funeral. Terry had been well-liked by just about everyone who'd ever met him.

Held in the Great Hall at Hogwarts; in spite of the very public nature of the funeral and subsequent memorial feast; both the Castle and the Hogwarts house-elves had conspired to make the sad occasion more bearable. The Castle itself reconfigured the Great Hall to provide a raised bier and a magical barrier around it, so that only the immediate family, close friends and selected others could get close.

The elves had not only outdone themselves in providing for everyone's needs and putting out an outstanding banquet for the feast, but had also lovingly constructed Terrence's casket; the young teacher's love of Nature and skill in Transfiguration were reflected in the final bower the elves had prepared for him.

Shaped to appear as a hollowed-out log, whose upper third yawned open to allow the viewing of the still form within, but that had no apparant means of closure, yet it did so in preparation for transport and then internment in the Hogwarts crypt in the Hogsmeade cemetery. The interior of the casket was lined in a fine, grey spider-silk; the wizard's still form, formally clothed in his black teaching robes, nestled gently within.

Terrence had been an especial favorite of the house-elves; his intrinsic understanding of their need to serve had not only served to finally educate Hermione about them, but led to having them actively participate in his classes - undoing student mistakes, cleaning up after more spectacular incidents and scurrying about finding this or that esoteric item for "our Professor's needs". The more he asked of them, the more they loved him. He was never mean or cruel, always said "please" and "thank you" and left his gloves, scarves, galoshes and cloaks in disparate places, claiming to have "forgotten" where he had taken them off and asking any nearby elf if they would "be so kind as to locate" the wanted item(s).

(It was through Terry's gentle explanations and his example that Hermione had finally understood her mistake in assuming the house-elves were all enslaved against their wills and merely brainwashed into believing they actually liked things the way they were. Instead, she had turned her considerable energy and fame to helping the Department of Magical Creatures to address the post-war flood of UnHoused and UnBonded house elves, finding them suitable placement with caring Families. )

When the old Black house-elf, Kreacher, passed away a year or so after the war, even Harry had been persuaded by Hermione to graciously accept three elves for Bonding to the "new" House of Black-Potter; Winky, her new mate Scutus and the late Dobby's younger brother, Cobby. Scutus and Winky presented the first House-born Black-Potter elf; their daughter Thistle, a tiny wisp of an infant; to the Master on a crisp, chill New Year's day morning, which fell ten months after the elves had Paired, with Harry's permission and blessing of course!)

The final touch, that showed the esteem and high regard that semi-sentient Hogwarts Castle itself had "felt" for the late wizard, had been the wizarding-portrait that appeared (and had been adhered to the wall permanently in some manner other than a Sticking Charm) in the Transfiguration classroom - the Castle bringing it forth unannounced - until Headmistress McGonagal had been half-scared to death by Terrence's jovial greeting upon her entering the room to retrieve some parchments the day after his funeral. A second, wizard-made, portrait was immediately commissioned by the Headmistress and this secondary portrait given to the late professor's widow upon completion.

A portrait was not a living, breathing person, however. Although Hermione would still converse with her late husband's portrait from time-to-time; generally when using the small study in the cottage where it hung; within a few months of his death the still-young witch decided to step back from the causes that had been such a part of the life she and her Terry had built for themselves and begun to reevaluate her new position in life.

Hermione found a strange sort of solace in being a widow. Despite the initial flurry of invitations from all and sundry to help warm the bereaved woman's bed, if not outright replacing the late Professor Whist's place at her side, Hermione had quickly settled into a manner of solitary life that suited her. It wasn't that she was trying to remove Terry from her life, but rather to find a life she could live without him.

"You've always had a sense of that kind of completeness, of being comfortable in your own skin, by yourself." her friend Ginny Potter, had remarked when Hermione had told her about the fence-railful of owls bearing invites to brunches, lunches, teas, dances, Muggle attractions and even the occasional bold proposition of base sexual congress that arrived each day. "I don't know if I could do that if anything were to happen to Harry," Ginny'd added, shuddering slightly. Harry's job was the most high-profile, dangerous job in all of Wizarding Britain and the possibility that he would not return home when leaving for the Ministry each morning was a definite possibility; the unspoken shadow and sub-text of their life together.

Hermione thought Ginny was far stronger than she thought, but hugged her tightly anyhow.

Finances weren't an issue. Even before Terry's death, her Order of Merlin; First Class with Commendation; provided a handsome stipend. In addition, after their honeymoon in Trinidad-Tobago, she and Terry had traveled to Australia to retrieve Hermione's parents, but tragically found they had both been killed in a motor vehicle accident only weeks after arriving in the "land down under". Convincing the authorities she was really Jane Wendell, returned from an extended research expedition deep in the Amazonian jungle, Hermione had collected her parent's remains and effects, closed out their bank and other accounts and returned to England where she had a quiet memorial for her parents' immediate families, had them re-buried in the Granger family plot and, after taking mementos and heirlooms, liquidated the remainder of her parent's estate, turning the bulk of it over to Gringott's and making a few investments in the Muggle world as well.

Draco Malfoy, unbelievably, had shown up unannounced at the Whist's one day shortly thereafter and brought the Malfoy barrister, Reginald Coursbey, with him. With Malfoy's and Coursbey's help, Hermione and Terry had been able to have her parent's life insurance paid out to them after the initial denial of the claim, despite the odd circumstances. With Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt's assistance, Coursbey had even had the double indemnity clause for accidental death allowed. When all was said and done, Terrence and Hermione were actually quite well-off, neither needing to work which allowed them to do work they loved - a rare and lovely happenstance for the benighted few so blessed to have it.

Shrewdly investing these monies, again with Draco and his barrister's advice, the Whist's had no financial concerns thereafter. Terrence even turned down his Hogwarts' salary - asking instead that it be donated to the new Muggleborn Liason Department Hardship Fund - chaired by Molly Weasley, which now provided an earlier introduction to the Wizarding world for Muggleborn students and their families.

A new wing of dormitories, classrooms and special accomodations for Mugglebirn and Half-blood students, called the Lupin-Tonks Magical Prepatory School, now helped to introduce the Magical world to these children and their families much earlier than ever before. Molly - and many others - had been incensed when the facts that the Ministry of Magic knew of every magical birth in Great Britain, immediately, as well as each being recorded in the records at Hogwarts (this information [aside from very special cases] only becoming available to the Headmaster/Mistress and his or her Deputy at the end of the school term prior to the student's first term in their eleventh year) became public knowledge.

The hue and cry had been volatile - leading many to question if those like Voldemort could have been prevented from the evil they'd turned to by much earlier intervention?

Interviews conducted with the Muggleborn and Half-blood denizens of Azkaban as well as with employees of the Ministry showed that there existed a high ratio of those who had good introductions after good childhoods having successful school and adult lives versus those whose background of fear, abuse, misunderstanding and the like often found themselves at the very least somewhat looked down upon to outright discrimination for things like jobs and housing, with a larger percentage of that population turning to criminal activities simply to get along. This didn't take into account the ones who simply left the Magical world forever upon graduating from Hogwarts. (In some cases, especially that of only children, the drive to "go Muggle" also came from pressure brought to bear from their families, who often felt cheated or even as if their child had been kidnapped from them!)

Now, non-magical parents and siblings of Half-Blood and Muggleborn magical children were also given the opportunity to be included in the Wizarding world their magical children/siblings would inhabit. From the ages of five to eleven, Muggleborn and Half-Blood children received their primary education at local-area private schools during each term and then had a six-week "camp"every summer; where the walls between Wizardingkind and the Muggle world came down and the stress of discovering a "normal" child was anything but, was greatly reduced.

Even so, with all of these new services available, Molly and her staff had their hands quite full, for not every family, even with these new programs in place, was happy about the knowledge that their child (or children, in one memorable set of identical triplets; the Moss sisters: Giada, Gina and Genine) was not like other children. These cases were handled directly by the Department's specially trained Intervention Specialists. A great surprise had been Petunia Dursley showing up at the Leaky Cauldron one day and refusing to budge until Harry himself had come. She had offered her help in the Liason office, especially as, now that Dudley had become a father, the fraternal twin son and daughter born to he and his wife began exhibiting "freakish" behavior, just like their famous cousin. Realizing how horribly cruel she and her family had been to Harry, she knew if she did the same with her beloved grandchildren that it would excise her son and his family from her forever. With Vernon having succumbed to a massive stroke some three years after the war, Petunia had no one else but her son and his family, driving her to finally accepting the magical world and the remorse she now felt.

Aside from the villians, it had actually been the cases such as Severus Snape, Lily Evans and even Harry Potter and Hermione herself that had led to these changes. Though not universally embraced; with the endorsement of the Golden Trio, the Minister of Magic, Hogwarts and even the support of the Wizengemot (in the cases of abuse and/abandonment); Muggleborn and Half-Blood magical children and their families were now more readily integrated and the staid Wizarding world was likewise more tolerant of the Muggle world.

All of this had led Hermione, while occasionally lending Molly and her staff a helping hand, to decide to write a trilogy of books. The first was a factual history of Wizarding-Muggle interactions and a close look at how the International Statutes of Secrecy had been both upheld and abused since their inception. The insightful, scholarly and fairly balanced tome quickly became a standard text in the curriculae of British and other country's Wizarding schools and, especially, for those apprenticed to legal careers. A major contribution had been made by the Headmaster/mistresses portraits at Hogwarts and the portraits of the Heads of the Wizengemot at the Ministry of Magic. The Salem Institute in the States, Durmstrang in Bulgaria and Beauxbaton's in France also had portrait contributions included.

The second book, begun as a companion to the first, was a collection of first-hand accounts of those on both sides of the Great Wizarding Wars of the 20th century as well as the Goblin Wars and others. Living survivors of the Grindelwald conflict as well as both ascendencies of the self-styled Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, were able to directly contribute memories, which were collected and collated along with Wizarding illustrations and interactive scenes based upon Penseive memories caught in a process similar to how Wizarding portraits were made, as well as the many portraits that agreed to be interviewed for those conflicts that had occurred before living memory.

Curiously, as a result, many portraits that had languished - forgotten and uncared for - in attics, back rooms, basements (and worse!) were found and given restorative care and an entire new floor, The Grand Portrait Hall, was magically constructed at the Ministry for their display. Other countries followed suit.

The resulting book had already gone into an unprecedented sixth printing.

The third book, however, was the most difficult. It was Hermione's own biography. Although she balked at the idea initially, Luna and Draco had convinced her, with the help of their fellow veterans and friends, that of all the stories of the Second Voldemort War, hers encompassed the broadest view of the entirety as only someone not born into the Wizarding world could have.

It was while she was curled up in her favorite armchair, writing about her time in her third year using a Time - Turner, that Crookshanks had fallen so violently ill.

As she sat, quietly observing her sleeping familiar, she had been struck with the realization that, aside from Hagrid and those like Charlie Weasley working with dragons, she really didn't know of anyone that specialized in the Healing of Magical creatures.

In the Muggle world, veterinary medicine was simply a fact of life. Whether you were merely a pet-owner, a farmer or a breeder of prize Pekinese dogs - there existed an entire discipline of medicine devoted to both general and specialized care of all animals. When you had a sick animal, you called the vet.

This wasn't true in the Wizarding world. At best, you might have a Gamekeeper like Hagrid, but even he was almost a one-of-a-kind.

Pondering this yet another facet of living in a magical society, Hermione had asked Hagrid why there weren't the equivalent of veterinarians for Magical creatures?

Which had led to Hagrid's pithy reply.

"But, really, Hagrid! If I hadn't been able to come to you, Crooksy could have - would have! - died! What do other people do?" Her voice colored by emotion, truly distraught, her wide amber-and-oak colored eyes glistening with her fervor as she gazed at her large friend.

Uncomfortable with this intense scrutiny, Hagrid leaned back, one hand moving to stroke his ubiquitous beard, the other trailing to the head of Fang's successor; a Crup-Irish Wolfhound cross named, of all things, Daisy. The fawning female was never far from her Master's side, only staying in the hut when he commanded it, but not liking it one bit when he did. She'd been a birthday gift from the late Madame Maxime, a victim of a dragon-pox outbreak at Beauxbaton's nearly eight years ago. His pet-name for his lady-love had been "Daisy", thus the dog had been given the same name, little knowing Olympe herself would be gone before her namesake would be a year old.

"Mostly, folks just take keer of they critters themselfs. Some, like th' Malfoys an' them who breed an' race Abraxans an' the like, well, they's got trainers fer 'em, like, see? They who knows them best, as ut were." The half-giant paused a moment then, a sad look came over his craggy, but gentle features.

"Ye know, I bin here for more than sixty years, nowt. In them years, I seen students bring all kinds o' critters with 'em. Hardly any knew howt t' care fer 'em proper-like an' I bin th' one whose had t' Heal 'em or put some o' 'em down 'cuz thar wasn't nothing to do with 'em. I had t' find homes fer th' ones as weren't legal-like, too, summat. I know all about that I guess!" Hagrid gave a self-deprecating laugh tinged with sad regret. It had been an "illegal" pet, a baby Acromantula, that had led to Hagrid's expulsion from Hogwarts when he'd been a student and being summarily "stripped" of his wand, though he'd secretly kept it in the handle of, of all things, a ladies frilly pink umbrella. His spider-friend had been accused of causing the death of a Hogwarts' student.

It hadn't been until the year of the Chamber of Secrets that the horrible truth had come out.

Hermione mulled over these things as she and Hagrid sat quietly together. A thought creased her brow and her companion caught the movement.

"A'righ' Hermione. I'd know that look of yours anywhere. What's crossin' that right, sharp mind o' yours, now?" His eyebrow raised reminded Hermione so much of Severus, she couldn't help smiling.

"Actually, I was thinking that it would be a shame for all of that knowledge and experience you have to be lost, Hagrid." She became serious, earnestly leaning towards Hagrid and speaking emphatically. "You and I both know how precious, and fleeting, life is. We both know that death may come for us at any time."

Swallowing hard as his eyes became misty, Hagrid nodded quickly and took a large swallow from his tea-mug. "Aye, it is. It is." he managed to say, gruffly.

"Have you ever given any thought to taking an apprentice, Hagrid?" Hermione asked gently.

"An 'prentice? Me? Yer daft! Who'd wan' t' 'prentice with ol' Hagrid? Pshaw!" He flicked his fingers at Hermione and leaned back, shaking his head.

"Hagrid! I'm serious! Who'll be able to take your place when you, when you d...er, retire?" she finished awkwardly, having almost said, "...when you die.", but thought better of it.

Hagrid snorted a short bark of laughter. "Retire? Me? Nah... Some mornin' the Headmistress'll look out her window yonder..." he pointed out his window, the Head's Tower framed like a picture. "... an' don't see no smoke comin' from m' chim'y. Then they'll know I'm 'r'tired'!" He shook his head some more, but Hermione's next words made him sit up straight, a very rare bolt of anxious fear zinging it's stinging path up his spine.

"So, what will become of Daisy? She'll have to 'retire' with you, then. No one else can handle her, you know."

The matter-of-fact tone Hermione spoke in made her words all the more gut-clenching. What was more was she was right and Hagrid knew it. He also knew he was pushing the century mark soon, and even though giants often lived far longer (if not killed by another giant or felled by someone thinking giants made good "sport" or were blamed for all sorts of calamities) than wizardingkind, no one was sure what sort of life-expectancy would be alloted Hagrid, barring illness or injury. Hagrid's Da had figured he'd be somewhere in-between; with good health, in fact, Hagrid had been told by St. Mungo's he could reasonably expect to likely live to see his second century and maybe even a bit beyond.

But no one lives forever, and, as Hermione had pointed out, Death can call at any time.

Hagrid knew she was right. But he knew Hermione even better than she gave him credit for and knew there was more scurrying through her brain than simply what would happen to Daisy should he suddenly be gone!

"Ah, right. I know that look and I know ye've got summat going through tha' head o' yers! What be it?"

Hermione began hesitantly. "Wellllllll..." She paused, biting her lower lip, a habit she'd retained from childhood, whenever she was nervous or unsure.

"C'mon, then, H'mione, spit 'er out!" Hagrid urged.

"Well, what would you say to setting up a school of sorts, like the classes you teach, only more detailed, more hands-on. You know, really training people how to care for all of these amazing creatures. Think of it, Hagrid! The "Rubeus Hagrid School of Magical Veterinary Healing and Care"! You could even have Britain's first St. Mungo's Magical Creature Healing Hospital. Or Center. Or... whatever you want to call it!"

Her eyes shone with the vision of the "what might be possible". It was in that moment that she made Hagrid believe in it, too. He beamed right back at her, marveling at how large a heart - and brain! - were contained in that delicately curved, petite body.

He didn't know it, but that almost unconscious observation began the trail that would lead them both through sorrows and joys neither could possibly have imagined.


	2. Chapter 1 - Daze of Past Future

After Crookshank's health scare, Hermione often found herself walking up the lane that led to her friend's cabin on a regular basis. It soon became habitual fot Hagrid to drop by to visit at her cottage as well when he came into Hogsmeade for one reason or another.

In fact, this occurred often enough that Hermione had Transfigured an oak log into a large, sturdy captain's chair for his especial use. Crookshanks had quickly adopted the thick cushion Hermione had made, Muggle-style, for it as Crooksy's preferred snoozing spot. It stood angled to face one side of the fireplace in the living room, near the corner window and directly opposite Hermione's own antique bentwood rocker. Quick visits became teas and the occasional supper, although Hermione always insisted on doing the cooking, having had the dubious "pleasure" of sampling Hagrid's less-than stellar culinary attempts.

Hagrid had come one late April afternoon to deliver a basket of wood-mushrooms he'd gathered during his traipse through the Forbidden Forest that morning and been asked in for tea and the lemon-creme scones Hermione had baked that afternoon. Sitting afterwards at the table he'd pulled "his" chair up to; laughing heartily at Hermione's pithy quip over all the mushrooms she, Ron and Harry had eaten during the Horcrux hunt; Hagrid had looked - really looked! - deeply into her beautiful cinnamon-hued eyes for the first time; he'd suddenly found himself drawn into their shimmering depths. His breath hitched as his gaze swept to the top of her head, the riotous mop of unruliness she'd had in her youth was now a shining mass of amber-highlighted mahoghany curls, lustrous and begging for him to reach out and gently pull one straight, only to see it bounce back.

He stretched out his hand to do just that...

...and pulled back with a jerk, sliding back a bit, clearing his throat loudly and nervously, ashamed of himself to even think of doing such a thing!

But...

"Hagrid. What's wrong?" That lilting contralto seemed to set every neuron in his lower back into a zinging jolt that traveled straight to his groin, causing his manhood to wake and peer about at the uncustomary stimulus. But, it was wrong! Wrong! He had no right, could never have a right, to be thinking, to be feeling...this.

Not for her. Never for anyone of her kind. It just wasn't possible. Not possible.

Clearing his throat again, he harummphhed a bit more, regaining his composure, before he finally looked back at her, "Oh, nothin', nothin' t' worry 'bout. Just a, uh, a... cramp in m'... leg, yeah. Not to worry!" Hagrid blustered, a big grin plastered on his craggy, bearded face.

"Cramp? Oh, that might be serious! Let me see..." she reached out to move away his right hand he'd placed crossways onto his left thigh, trying to hide the stirrings in his breeches.

He jumped back, chair falling over while he then stumbled into and then crashed onto and then through the table. His head swam for a moment and he felt a sharp pain under his left armpit, where he now felt an odd trickling sensation just below it. Stunned for the moment, he just lay there amidst the shattered wood of what had been Hermione's table.

He could be forgiven, then, for what happened next.

Couldn't he?

Before he knew it, after hearing a sharp gasp, he began to feel the touch of small fingers on his face and chest. They moved quickly over his heavily-muscled, work-molded form, pressing and patting, running along his right arm, then his left...

"Ye devils of night and blood, OWWWWW!" he bellowed as the whatever was causing the sharp pain in his armpit was jostled, sending even his extreme tolerance for pain right off the scale.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! Oh, Hagrid! You have a big chunk of wood sticking into your armpit... and you're bleeding! A lot! But Madam Pomfrey is visiting her sister... there's no one in the Infirmary at Hogwarts..."

Pain fuzzing his head, Hagrid just laid there, for once gazing UP at her, though, admittedly, not by much. She was so petite; to him she was as tiny and fragile as a hatchling hummingbird. How could he have been thinking...!

And with that, all rational thought fled as he realized just how deeply in trouble he actually was.

Pain forgotten temporarily in the moment of realization, he just stared up into those cinnamon eyes and at her mahogany tresses, knowing in his heart that he irrevocably, unalterably and without any hope whatsoever of bringing this stillborn desire to life - loved this beautiful vision with each and every bit of his huge heart.

But it could not be.

His father, human and doting on his only and beloved son, had instilled in Hagrid how much he was just like anyone else; just as smart, just as good, just as HUMAN as anyone.

But he didn't need to look at a mirror to know all of that wasn't precisely true. Oh, he was smart alright - in his own way - and in certain areas he was actually extremely knowledgeable. Of course he was as good as anyone else! Just as deserving of kindness and respect, just as capable of giving it back. He was loyal and steadfast, possessed of a normally calm, patient and forgiving nature.

But as for being human, well, that was only half true.

Because his other half came from the mother who bore him, nursed him only until he could be given other sustenance, and left both he and his father, never to return. His unique heritage was undeniably from the woman who had captured his father's deeply caring heart in her huge fist and callously crushed it like a grape, as was the way of giants.

His mother had been a giantess. Making him only half-human. There was no hiding this heritage. He'd never even tried. He also knew that he was likely to always being alone, though he never ceased to dream of holding and loving a soft, warm woman in his embrace.

Once, more than a decade prior, he thought he'd finally met her. A woman like himself, someone he could give all of the love his gigantic heart was capable of giving. He'd dreamt of things like rings and vows, of sensual passion run rampant in a tangke of limbs and cries of pleadure, of knowing smiles over cups of morning tea, of feeling life stirring beneath his caress of tautly stretched abdominal skin, of gazing into the bleary blue eyes of a newborn whose nose looked like his own.

Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbaton's.

She'd wound up loathing him not very long before she had died so suddenly.

A few weeks after the disastrous events that had culminated in the return of the self-styled Lord Voldemort at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, he'd been asked by Dumbledore to go to Beauxbatons and ask Madame Olympe Maxime to accompany him on an embassage to the giant's enclave deep in the Austrian Alps, just over the Swiss border. After a week spent exploring the grounds and denizens of Beauxbatons she had agreed. She'd even given one of her Crup-Irish Wolfhound hybrid's pups to Hagrid.

They had left France completely immersed within each other, shy smiles and courtly behavior culminating in fevered passion.

Then, he'd found Grawp.

Discovering his half-brother had ignited Hagrid's intense desire to not be alone. A brother! He had a brother! Flesh of his flesh! In his enthusiasm, he'd blundered, badly.

Olympe had denied her heritage her whole life. She'd always claimed to have a glandular disorder that had caused her to grow so large. This was the tale she'd told to one and all her whole life. She came to half-believe in it herself.

Then came the TriWizard Tournament... and Hagrid.

Olympe, too, had longed her whole life for hearth and home. Hagrid had ignited the same longings and hopes, resurrecting long-buried dreams. She would travel to the ends of the earth with him, for him.

Until Grawp.

Here was undeniable proof of Hagrid's half-giant heritage. Olympe tried to accept it, but, in the end, one day Hagrid had returned to their campsite, his face battered and sporting an immense black eye, clothes ripped and covered in mud and blood. She had shivered in disgust at the sight and smell of him. He'd spent the whole day with his brother in the giant's filthy camp. The enclave's central camp was strewn with half-gnawed animal bones and the giants themselves only wore raw, stinking skins that barely covered their genitals. The giants were filthy, uncouth, brutal... brutes! All that she had ever despised about herself she saw magnified in this group of what amounted to little more than human-mocking beasts! And Hagrid wanted to be just like them! He lived his life half-wild even at Hogwarts, his time spent with other creatures. Other creatures.

Suddenly, she could bear no more, stumbling off into the trees to retch violently. Coming back from his quick bath just in time to see Olympe stagger into the treeline, the unmistakable noises of vomiting letting him know what she was doing, Hagrid had waited for her to return. He relit their campfire and put the two geese he'd snared and dressed while out hunting with Grawp onto spits made of alder wood, pulling tufts of herbs he'd picked and gathered during his day's activities fro his voluminous pockets. Along with salt from a pouch taken out of his haversack, he soon had the herb-stuffed geese roasting nicely on their spits above the fire, grease dripping richly and sizzling into the fire.

As he cooked, Rubeus woolgathered. In his vest pocket, in a hinged box he'd carved himself from an oak burl, rested a gold and ruby ring. The design was simple: a band, chased with twining vines, the large ruby grasped within a curl of two leaves of gold. He'd made it during the evenings when his duties for the day were done and his mind drifted to the elegant, exquisite Olympe. The ruby alone had cost him half a year's salary, but what was that? He hardly ever spent any of the many galleons deposited in his Gringott's vault every month. His material wants were few. What little he did spend hardly dented the pile that had been steadily accumulating over the years. Lately, one of the Goblins, Griphang, Grophoof,... No, Griphook! That was the name! Griphook had taken to asking him if he needed any of the goblin-banks "financial planning services", whatever that meant, whenever he'd stopped to take out a handful or two from the rather large(if he had to say so himself) pile.

He'd sat on one of the two logs he and Olympe had pulled up beside the fire. With the cushion of his heavy bear-fur cloak, he'd made sure her seat was as comfy as could be. Turning the cooking geese, he wondered what was taking her so long. Maybe she still wasn't feeling well? She had told him she'd never done any rough-camping like this; always in a caravan with house-elves and amenities built-in to overcome the rigors of the outdoors.

Oh, but she'd been a right trooper! All of the hiking up and down hills, valleys and into the Alps. A canvas tent that boasted only of being waterproof with no Extension or other Charms. Bathing meant, at best, a sun-warmed eddy-pool or the shallows of a mountain lake. She'd taken it all in stride, though. What a woman she was! He could hardly wait to ask her to be his, to begin their life together, to making all of those dreams come true!

An hour had gone by without sight or sound from Olympe. It wasn't like her to wander off, either. She'd stuck right by his side, obeyed every cautionary phrase he'd uttered. But first was, - Stay together!

So, where was she?

Truly worried, now, Hagrid pulled the geese over to one side to stay warm, but not burn, and struck off into the woods in the direction Olympe had gone.

Just within the treeline, he first smelled, then found, where Olympe had been ill. Thinking she might have eaten something that didn't agree with her, he followed the trail she'd left.

She seemed to be headed in the direction of the pass that led into the valley, magically hidden, between two, of the Alps through which they had entered the domain of the giants. But why would she be heading that way if she wasn't feeling good? The only thing out there was...

Hagrid stopped. He let his practiced eye follow the obvious trail as it wended its way almost directly to the mountain pass. The only thing she could be heading for was the Apparation point just outside the magical barrier that protected non-magical folk from stumbling on the giants' mountain valley and had been Charmed and Warded to repel the giants themselves from leaving through it.

Sighing heavily, Hagrid began walking in Olympe's footsteps once more.

Even for him, it took the better part of an hour to traverse the distance. Approaching the barrier, he looked around, but the trail was clear - straight for the barrier. Bracing himself, Hagrid stepped through it, the wash of magical energy prickling his skin like a swarm of biting gnats.

On the other side was a Muggle hiking camp and hostel. It provided cover for when a liason needed to approach the giants, as a lone hiker would have been out of place.

Heading for the hidden Apparation point behind the log-and-stone bathhouse, he huffed a breath of relief when he found Olympe sitting on a tree stump beside the Apparation spot. She looked like... like she'd been crying!

Hagrid hurried over and then stopped, before slowly going to his knees to kneel before the weeping woman. He reached up and ran his strong hands up and down her arms a few times, then made to hold her when she suddenly pushed him backwards - hard! - and rose, turning her back, her head bowed over her crossed arms, shoulders shaking as she continued to cry, albeit mostly silently.

Hagrid had been knocked onto his backside; Olympe was almost as strong as he was. He shook his shaggy head, wincing as some of the bruises protested. He'd have to put Bruise Paste on the worst of them before bed tonight.

As he moved to push himself to his feet, Olympe whirled around and the look on her face! As if she were clapping her eyes on a grotesque sight or smelled something foul!

And then he knew.

As his heart thudded painfully in his suddenly achingly hollow chest, he let his eyes lock onto hers. Her steely gaze never wavered, she barely even blinked. Her tears had been wiped away and he could only assume she'd quickly used some glamour or other charm to appear as if she hadn't been crying at all.

It took many long moments before the sudden constriction in his throat allowed him to barely voice a husky, "Why? What have I done?"

Without relenting in her gaze she said, in a calm but firm voice, "I do not azzozheate wiz zee animals, Hagreed. I am a weetch! I am not a feelthy beast! I will not allow zeez to continue." Her gaze faltered and she lowered her gaze, one pointed toe brushing the leaf debris. Her voice was softer with her next words.

"I am zorry, Hagreed, but I do not wizh to see you again. Theez iz good bye."

With that, she lifted her gaze, gave a sad little smile, then turned in place... and was gone with a soft "pop!"

He'd stood rooted to the spot for what, later, he realized had been hours. As the sky began to lighten, he came back to himself once more, scrubbing his scratchy, stiff beard and his face, both covered in a rime of salt left behind by the silent rivers of tears he'd wept as he'd stood his lonely night of vigil over the spot she'd left him from.

As the sun began to peek over the rim of the alpine lake to the east, Hagrid had turned, heading back to the giant's enclave, back to his... pack.

Memory now twisted its way through Hagrid's gut and mind like a salamander as he lay amidst the shattered remains of Hermione's table; shunting the pain of his wound somewhere else as he began to struggle to rise. Why did he feel so weak?

"Hagrid! HAGRID! Stop! You're bleeding very badly and you need to stay still. Hagrid! Listen to me! Stop struggling! Lie STILL, dammit!" Hermione's normally sweet voice was now tinged with panic, becoming almost shrill, but it cut through the fog and Hagrid stopped struggling, feeling himself suddenly drifting into a languid state, almost like what you feel before you fall asleep when you have the flu and a fever. Drifting...

Drifting...

...

He was cocooned in absolute softness, but it also supported him, as if, for the first time in his life, he'd found himself floating. Giants don't like water for a good reason - water can't buoy them up. Thought to be the result of some elemental repulsion, instead of floating, giants sink like a stone in water. Even half-giants, in the main (rare though they are - for obvious reasons) can't float and can't, therefore, swim.

Hagrid had always dreamed of doing it, though. He'd even learned Mermish to talk to the Merpeople in the Lake, hoping they would have some idea, but all they knew was the old legend that giants had not been born of earth, like humans, but rather had been made from stone as a Scourge upon mankind. It had only been in response to the instituting of the International Statutes of Secrecy, and the subsequent hiding and veiling of all things magical, that all the giants in the world had been herded into immense mountain enclaves, kept magically within their boundaries and the Muggle world kept out. The advent of satellites had been an issue, initially, but Simon Seetherall had finally come up with the Magical Secrecy Illusion Charm used on all currently operational satellites. Older ones were simply hexed into uselessness.

But, now he found his boyhood dream fulfilled! He could float! Lazily, he tried to move his arms to try a backstroke, but found himself unable to move. He tried again... and again...

He couldn't move!

Panic began to rise and he put all of his considerable strength into trying to struggle free of whatever was preventing him from moving.

As he continued to try to struggle, his panic exponentially got worse and he began to feel short of breath. Now, struggling both to be free and simply to breath, he suddenly heard a voice, hauntingly familiar.

"Hagrid? Hagrid! It's okay! Stop fighting! You're safe. You're going to be alright. Hagrid! Listen to me!"

"He can't hear you. Let me get the mediwitch..." came a smooth-as-caramel baritone. He knew these voices!

"No. He just needs to calm down and he'll be fine." It was that first voice again, but why couldn't he recall who it was - or what was going on.

"I'll be right back" The baritone.

All he heard was a cluck of exasperation. Curiousity began to override the panic.

Hagrid stopped struggling and felt his breathing ease.

"That's it! That's it, Hagrid! Nice and easy. In. Out. Slow and easy. In. Out. Good, good! MUCH better!"

Somehow, the cheery tone made Hagrid want to smile, but he suddenly felt very tired. He felt unconsciousness take him over once more and he again knew nothing for a time.

Bright light filled his field of vision. He tried to blink and it dawned on him his eyes were closed, but strong light was filtering through his eyelids. He became aware of great warmth that made him feel bathed in comfort. Giants weren't cold-blooded, but they did have a love-affair with sunlight. Even half-giants did. Giant-kind didn't get sunburned, either. It had great restorative and even Healing effects on them.

Someone was bathing him in sunlight!

It also dawned on him that he seemed to only be wearing nothing more than his summer drawers!

His eyelids didn't want to open; feeling like they were glued shut. Little by little, he flexed his forehead and cheek muscles and was rewarded when his right lid parted slightly.

He instantly wished he hadn't done it.

Searing pain stabbed through his eye before he could clamp it shut again. Too late, however, to stifle the involuntary groan of pain.

Hibiscus. Hibiscus and... lilac? No... not lilac... freesia! That was it! Hibiscus and freesia mixed in a base of bergamot and a touch of orange-blossom. Heady and exotic, curiously neither cloying nor heavy. A "just-right" scent.

Familiar. Familiar?

Suddenly, a soft, wet cloth was gently sponged over his eyelids, removing the encrustation that had effectively sealed them shut. Rubeus also became aware that the level of light suddenly dropped, taking away the wonderful warmth. "Worth ut, though," he thought to himself, "...if I can see again."

With that, he tried to open first his right eye, then his left, pleased to find they both opened easily now.

Blinking to clear his blurred vision, a face swam into view. THAT face! HER face! He gasped involuntarily, unconsciously hunching away from her. Forbidden! Wrong!

Seeing his distress, the young woman sat back on her heels as she knelt in the soft grass beside Hagrid... Rubeus's pallet, set up behind the Gamekeeper's hut in what Healer Berkowitz (a Jewish wizard - who knew?) had assured her and Severus both was the most healing balm of all for full- or half-giants... pure, undiluted sunshine! Well, it certainly seemed to be working all right. Hag...RUBEUS! His name is Rubeus! Rubeus hadn't regained consciousness at St. Mungo's, even though all of the diagnostics showed that he should have. The Healers were stumped.

Then, Argus Filch had come to visit. He had actually bathed, shampooed, combed and tied back his thin queue of silver hair and was wearing a Muggle suit, ill-fitting, but neatly pressed and clean. Argus had never looked this good before, although it was debateable how, comparatively speaking, "good" that was, but was still a sharp contrast to his usual appearance!

After shuffling into Hag... Rubeus' room, standing solemnly at the foot of the Engorgioed bed, he'd looked at Severus, seated in a chair to one side reading a Potions journak, "Why he ain't wakin' up then? I thought ye told us he were improvin'? Don't look none too much better'n when ye took 'im off t'here!" Filch declaimed as he kept his gaze squarely on the Gamekeeper.

Severus, never raising his eyes from his journal intoned, "Looks can be deceiving, Argus. His wound has been Healed as has the subsequent blood infection. The Healers have rarely seen a half-giant, so aside from keeping him hydrated and magically fed nutritive potions, they know of nothing else that can be done. He'll wake when he wakes, we're told."

"An' ye ain't called Berkowitz?" the old caretaker's gaze never left the still form beneath the light blanket.

Severus looked up, his trademark eyebrow rising. "Berkowitz? Who, pray tell, is he?"

"Th' giant r'searcher. Y'know, him who took care o' th' injured giants aft' th' Battle!" Argus turned his taciturn face to the Potions Master. "Why ain't ye called 'im, then?" he barked.

After a few moments gazing in surprise at the old curmudgeon, Severus snorted, snapped his journal closed and left the room.

Argus was proved right, however. Inquiries at the Ministry located the giant researcher in the Victoria Mountain enclave in Africa. Twelve hours, two Portkeys and a Side-Along Apparation later, Healer Shmuel Berkowitz entered Rubeus Hagrid's room at St. Mungo's with a brisk but friendly mien. Upon seeing the patient, however, he became "all business" and, producing his wand (olive wood, 13-1/2", supple, Fwooper vocal cord core), began casting a multicolored array of diagnostic spells, enthralling the small crowd of St. Mungo's Healers who were observing and taking rapid, copious notes. Severus had resumed his station at the head of the bed, his eyes and ears taking everything in.

Not having yet spoken, suddenly the Healer stood fully upright, dismissing the spells with a negligent flick of his wrist, turning to Severus, rather than the Healers; a sardonic expression crossed his face.

"You are the friend of this man?"

"Of sorts. We were employed at Hogwarts together. I teaching Potions and Rubeus Hagrid as Gamek..."

Healer Berkowitz interrupted. "You mean this is THE Hagrid of Hogwarts?"

Annoyed at being interrupted, Severus merely nodded in the affirmative.

"Well, then the treatment is must go back and then be given sunshine therapy, straight and to as much of his skin surface as possible, from dawn to dusk daily - and at once! Does no one here..." he turned a mouldering gaze on the suddenly chastened-looking Healers in attendance, "...recall the most BASIC treatment for any and ALL injuries or illnesses in giants, hmm?" Berkowitz's gaze plunged into each of the attendees as if they were raw interns. "SUNLIGHT! Sunlight, unfiltered and in as much strength and quantity as the season, weather and length of day permit, ladies and gentlemen."

Severus found himself ferociously damping down an almost unbearable urge to break out in raucous laughter at the discomforture of the Healers, but was able to rein it in. At least for the moment.

The specialist turned once more to his large patient. "Yes, back to Hogwarts with you, young man, and you will soon be right as rain." Berkowitz once more turned to Snape. "You can make arrangements? Friends to care for him until his strength is returned?" The penetrating gaze now fell on Severus, who found himself simply nodding once more.

"A man of few words. Good in my book. I will come in three days to see how our Hagrid is coming along. Good day!"

With a final nod, Healer Berkowitz blew out of the room, St. Mungo's personnel tripping over each other in hot pursuit.

Luckily, no one saw the utterly delighted, almost maliicious, grin on the face of the normally dour Potions Master. They would have been frightened out of what little would have remained of their wits. He was actually looking forward to seeing the man again, surprisingly. Snorting, Severus returned to his magazine, awaiting the Ministry personnel who would soon arrive to take Hagrid back to Hogwarts.

Rubeus lay blinking, trying to figure out how and where and why he was where he was and in his humiliating state of undress. Humiliating mainly due to present company.

, by the names of the Three Graces, was he going to do about that?

Sleep claimed Hagrid once again as he pondered these thoughts.


End file.
